


Country Songs

by riyku



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: The day they meet, in the lobby of a studio exec's swanky boardroom, Jared reels him in and kisses his cheek before Jensen can manage to tell Jared his name.





	Country Songs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spnspringfling as a gift for mandylynn44.

They've never shaken hands, not as far as Jensen can remember.

The day they meet, in the lobby of a studio exec's swanky boardroom, Jared reels him in and kisses his cheek before Jensen can manage to tell Jared his name. It's Hollywood and Jensen's pounded plenty of its sidewalks and been in enough rooms just like this one to know that everyone says hello like that, schmoozes their way through introductions, hoping to make connections with trumped up, instant familiarity.

Jared's smile is enormous and genuine, his hands warm and strong on Jensen's shoulder and the back of his neck. The ghost of Jared's grasp sticks around long after the table-read is through and the show gets greenlit, and nothing about it feels like Hollywood.

 

***

 

He moves to Canada. Again. This time is better than the first two. The network tells them they like what they see, throws around words like chemistry. Jared starts bitching about the cold in September and Jensen tells him to wait until February.

There's a bar fight, long days and even longer nights, and Vancouver begins to feel like home in a way that California never has. Jensen stops catching the first flight back to L.A. every Friday night or Saturday morning, shows Jared around to all of his favorite steakhouses and dive bars.

They drink too much, stay up too late, share war stories until they run outta fresh material then set about making new ones. First person singular pronouns leak with a steady drip from Jensen's vocabulary, replaced by we, us, and ours.

 

 

***

 

"Looks like the iceman is melting." Mike's on his third slushy green tea thing, and Jensen's sucking down coffee like the price of it is gonna bust through the roof tomorrow. It's been a week since Mike's played Lex and he keeps scratching at the short stubble on the back of his head.

Warner Brothers is hosting a meet-and-greet in Beverly Hills. Jensen's traded cloudy skies and evergreens for bright sunshine and palm trees for the weekend.

Mike isn't talking about the slow trickle of sweat tickling the small of his back. Jensen knows better than to let himself get attached, has learned to maintain a safe distance, that everything – fame, a steady paycheck, friendship – is temporary in this business. He also knows Jared has been breaking through his forcefield with all the sublety of a wrecking ball, that it's only been a day and a half since he's seen Jared and it sorta feels like he's missing a limb.

"It's not like that," Jensen tells Mike. His phone buzzes, vibration dancing it across the small table while Jared's face grins up at him from the screen.

"Oh yeah?" Mike says, "Then what's it like?"

 

 

***

 

Jared never knocks, so Jensen stops as well.

A week into filming, they'd exchanged their spare key cards to their hotel suites, and more times than not Jensen wakes up to Jared kicking his mattress, sweaty and stinking from his morning run, waving coffee under Jensen's nose and talking about something he's read in the paper, or a dream he had, or a new word he's just now learned the meaning of. Jensen stretches and scratches and forces his eyes to stay open and learns more than he ever thought he'd know about the per capita GNP of Uzbekistan.

Jared busts through his trailer door constantly, begins every conversation already half-way through and expects Jensen to catch up. His laugh takes over his whole body, and most of Jensen's, too.

One night, at the end of a cold, wet, sixteen-hour day, he slams into Jensen's trailer, doesn't hesitate to toss open the bathroom door, going on about how he's just seen the Aurora Borealis. Jensen has his pants down below his ass and his dick in his hand, well enough into a piss he'd been holding for the last hour, too late to turn back now. He finishes, shakes, tucks himself away and turns around to see Jared, pink-cheeked and mittened and absolutely unphased, launch into a lecture on geomagnetism complete with some kinda noodle-armed interpretive dance. It's then that Jensen admits, once and for always, that he's traded in a co-worker for something else. Something he might be able to live without, but only barely.

 

 

***

 

At first, Jensen thinks Jared is sleeping. His suite is dark, quiet, low light from the city many stories below filtering into the room. Jensen slips the keycard into his wallet behind his own, toe-heels it to the corner kitchen, on the hunt for some of that leftover Thai he's pretty sure is still in there, or those little pudding things Jared's always hoarding and bringing home from set. He's pushing past protein shakes in the fridge when he hears Jared laugh behind his closed bedroom door.

Jensen heads in that direction, thinking of Jared's innate ability to find _Mash_ reruns regardless of the hour, opens the door about to do his best Hawkeye impersonation and then stops, mouth open, feet like concrete.

The guy laying between Jared's legs has short hair and a tribal tattoo etched across his shoulders. The inside of Jared's thigh is wet from his spit and Jared's boxers are still around one of his ankles, dangling off of the side of the bed. Jared has his bottom lip bitten between his teeth, his hair is hanging in front of his eyes in damp strings and Jensen's not gonna stick around any longer, has to train himself to start knocking on doors again, talk to Jared about hanging a sock on his doorknob or something.

Jensen's hit the wrong button in the elevator three times and landed on the wrong floor twice before he realizes he's still juggling pudding in his left hand and he's stolen two of Jared's spoons.

It takes twelve fingers of whiskey to deaden the acid burn in his stomach, a few more to shake the ridiculous, irrational feeling that he's been cheated on, and another to knock him out. When his alarm shocks him awake a few hours later, his glasses are folded on his bedside table and there's a bottle of water and four painkillers beside them, and that's how he knows Jared's been here.

 

 

***

 

The dude who works nights at the reception desk has stopped looking Jensen in the eye. It doesn't take long for Jensen to add two and two and come up with four.

 

 

***

 

Nothing about Jared has changed. They run lines and Jared steals most of Jensen's lunch and catnaps on his shoulder as they get trucked out to location shoots. He still walks with his arm flung around Jensen, flirts with anything that has a pulse.

Everything about how Jensen _sees_ Jared has changed. He gets preoccupied with fragments of Jared, as if the whole of him has suddenly become too big. Remebers his kiss-bitten mouth. Thinks about the long slope of his neck, the particular breathy sound of his voice. How Jared never looks away when Jensen catches him staring.

 

 

***

 

They don't lie to each other. They've never kept secrets.

"I stole two of your spoons," Jensen admits.

Jared's been sprawled across the couch in Jensen's living room, nose buried in a back issue of _Scientific American_ and Jensen's been trapped under his outstretched legs for most of an hour, trying to commit seven consecutive goddamn pages of dialogue to memory. His heart's not really in it. Neither is his attention span.

Deliberately, Jared drops his magazine and sits up. The gaze he gives Jensen is steady. "I know."

"I'm sorry. Not about the spoons." Jensen rubs his knuckles against Jared's upper arm and swears he feels Jared lean into it. Just a fraction.

"Yeah, I know that too," Jared says, and he suddenly sounds so tired, is wearing a look of resignation on his face to match, and Jensen wants to wipe it clean, take it all back, make him smile. "Listen –"

"No. Don't," Jensen interrupts him. "I. I wanna be the one person who knows everything about you."

Jensen has thought about kissing a guy before, never done it, but thought about it. Hell, he's thought about kissing _Jared_ , how big Jared's hands would be against his face, what it would be like to have to tip up instead of down, how their morning stubble might catch and drag, maybe burn a little. He's wondered if Jared would put that strength of his to use or if he'd be gentle, thought about how he wouldn't need to be gentle.

The idea has always been abstract, but there's nothing theoretical about the way he's tangling his hand in the collar of Jared's t-shirt, stretching it out and pulling him closer. Jared's momentary, eye-widened expression of shock melting into something else, something Jensen can't quite put his finger on. Nothing theoretical about the warmth of Jared's mouth or the shake of his hand when he touches Jensen's cheek, curls his fingers around Jensen's ear.

Jensen backs off, stomach flipping like a carnival ride, heartbeat a wild thing, fist still clenched in Jared's shirt. "I think I've wanted to do that for a while now," he says.

Jared's mouth parts on a startled gasp and he breathes out something that might have sounded like yeah if Jared had put any power behind his voice, so Jensen kisses him again, deeper this time. Hotter. More sure. He lets Jared hoist him up, waits for a freak out that never comes as Jared walks him toward the bedroom, chest pressed to his back and lips pressed to his neck.

Months of stunt training have given them an exact knowledge each other's bodies and how to take a fall, how to move together, and as Jensen crawls up then back down Jared's body, it's almost like an extension of himself. Jared is flat planes, hard muscle where Jensen is more accustomed to soft curves. Deep moans, strong arms and a hard cock nudging at Jensen's jaw as he kisses his way along Jared's stomach. Jared's is a voice Jensen knows better than his own.

 

 

***

 

Rain beats against the window. The wind has changed direction.

Jensen wakes up with Jared's hand clutched possessively to his hip. His mouth tastes like roadkill and his lips feel glued together, and he has to remember to brush his teeth the next time he sucks Jared off. It's a disorienting thought to have. Not necessarily a bad one.

"I hate country songs," Jared says in a croaked out, hoarse whisper.

Jensen flips onto his back, worms an arm beneath Jared's shoulders, soaks in the bed-warmth of his skin, his small, content smile. "What?"

"You said you wanted to know everything about me." Jared nuzzles at his hairline and his breath smells like roadkill too. Jensen doesn't mind it. "That country station you always make us listen to on the way to set. It's the only thing I don't love about you."

 

end


End file.
